The Red Ledger
by Parkerbrookz
Summary: A collection of short stories centered around Hal's bloody past.
1. English Rose

He blinked in the sudden light, twisting away from the heat of the day. He felt full and tired, like mosquito supped on too much blood. More than sated, he was close to bursting.

"Lord Hal," The voice was deeply familiar. "Lord Haaal." He sat up. His hair was tussled, long and curling and matted with blood. He ran a hand through it, working at a few of the tangles. Fergus stood at the foot of the bed, wearing only a pair of loose place pants belted tight at the waist. _Ah, familiar Fergus_. His narrow bare chest was mottled with blood. Blood that crusted black and flaked away. He was flushed with it. They both were. Hal could feel it working its way around his insides, heating him up, loosening him in the same way that wine might loosen up a man.

"What is it, Fergus?" he asked, mildly irritated at having been woken. Given a choice, he would have preferred to sleep until the evening, and then gone hunting again. He and his company had planned to stay in the manor house for the rest of the week, making sport of the country side before moving into London to visit the Coven there.

"It's that damnable Wilshire, sir," answered Fergus.

"Wilshire?" Hal asked, stretching languorously, like a big cat. "I don't remember any Wilshire." There was a body beside him in the bed. A young woman, naked, her lovely blonde locks stained red with blood. Her throat and chest were a grisly mess. Hal vaguely remembered tearing out her heart the night before. He licked his lips, tasting the last traces of her with his tongue. She'd been a good fuck and an even better kill. "What does he want?"

"To kill you, it would seem, my lord. He's been tailing us for days. Seems like he's finally caught up. Ivan found him this morning."

"Well, we just can't have that, can we?" Hal buckled his belt, then held up the tattered remains of what had once been a shirt. "Be a good fellow Fergus and fetch me a new one, will you? I rather seem to have ruined this one." He dropped it back on to the bed, on top of the corpse. "Sleep tight, love," he sneered, his fingers brushing her crimsoned locks before turning to follow Fergus out of the room.

The shirt Fergus found him had belonged to the former head of the house. It was white, with a wide button-down collar. Hal wore it unbuttoned past his collarbone. The mother-of-pearl buttons shown beautifully in the bright morning light. The sleeves were flared, adding drama to his every motion. They passed by several corpses on their way down to the foyer. He didn't bother to wash off any of the blood, and it clung to him like a second skin.

When Lord Harry walked, it was with purpose. He moved like a man of great importance, tall and strong. His sloping shoulders rippled with muscle. He'd been a strong young man when he'd been alive, and had lost none of his prowess in the pallor of death. If anything, he appeared even more powerful. He was a hunter, strong and sure, and he exuded an air of confidence.

He paused at the top of the steps, gazing pridefully down at his men milling about in the room below. His company consisted of about fifteen men. All of them the strongest, most cunning brutes he'd encountered during his wanderings. All of them were utterly ruthless, and completely loyal to him. There was another man, one he didn't recognize, tied to a chair. This had to be Wilshire.

He made his way down the stairs slowly, each step finding its place and its purpose. He was a tiger. Leisurely and deadly. Wilshire's eyes were fixed on him, and they burned with hatred and rage. It was a look that Hal had seen many times before, most frequently directed at him. In order to become powerful, one frequently had to upset people. Hal was good at upsetting people.

"Wilshire, Wilshire, tell me why your name sounds so familiar." He nodded to one of his men, who reached over and removed the gag from Wilshire's mouth. The man spit on the floor, then glared up at Hal. He was an attractive fellow, perhaps in his early thirties, built tall and lean.

"You murdered my Jenna," he said, his voice hot with barely contained self-righteous rage. "You killed her."

"I've killed a lot of people," Hal shrugged. "I don't particularly remember your Jenna."

"She was the most lovely creature in all of Suffolk. Her hair was the color of honey, and it tumbled across her fair skin, more brilliant than the sun itself. Her eyes sparkled like the sea, and her laugh-"

"Yes, yes. Enough with the poetry, Shakespeare." Hal gestured the man to silence. "Now that you mention it, I do seem to remember your girl. Delicate creature. Frail english rose, yes? We tore her apart like a petal, didn't we, boys?" Hal turned to his men, basking in their laughter. He thrived on attention. Wilshire whispered something under his breath. "What's that?" Hal's head snapped at the sound.

"I said," repeated Wilshire, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That I'm going to kill you." Hal laughed.

"You? Do you really think you can kill me, boy?" he barked, his eyes glittering frightfully. "You wouldn't be the first to try, that much is certain, and I rather doubt you'll be the one to succeed." Hal looked him over with a critical eye. He was bigger than Hal, but not nearly as powerfully built. "Want to give it a try? Untie him, Gents. Let's see what ol' Wilshire's got."

Wilshire was on his feet in a matter of moments. In one hand, he held a heavy wooden stake. Hal noticed that his other hand was clumsily bandaged. He could smell the faint rot of infection creeping through the flesh.

One of Hal's men tossed him a knife. He caught it without taking his eyes off of Wilshire. The knife was a long, wicked thing, and it rested comfortably in his hand. He twirled it like a baton and grinned at Wilshire. "Shall we?"


	2. English Rose Part II

**This delightful fictional universe and it's characters belong exclusively to the BBC**

**I apologize for my lack of posting! I've been uber busy with school, volunteering, and my other story "Human Again" which i suggest you check out if you haven't already!**

* * *

Wilshire moved like a man possessed. A feral cry was rent from betwixt his lips as he flew forward, plunging his stake with incredible force into the space where Lord Harry's heart should have been. The stake moved through the air, encountering no resistance. Hal was gone, removed from the scene with preternatural speed. Wilshire spun, already gently panting, as his eyes sought Hal, the subject of his fury. The laughter came from his right. He turned, catching movement in the corner of his eye. By the time the action was complete, Hal was gone again. A ghost. A whisper. A fragment.

"Come on!" taunted Hal, capering around Wilshire. "Where's your pluck, boy? Come on, come on, come on!" he beckoned with a mocking hand. Wilshire made another mad dash, stabbing into empty space.

"To slooow," This time the voice whispered directly in his ear, breath tickling his skin. He swung again, meeting at last with something solid. An arm. The stake only grazed lord Harry. Nothing close to debilitating. Cold fingers pried at Wilshire's hand and the stake clattered to the floor. Lord Harry kicked it far out of his reach. He stumbled back just in time- he could hear the click of Lord Harry's teeth closing just inches from his skin. Close enough to smell the blood-and-sex stink of him. Attacking with nothing but his hands, Wilshire sprung forward, ignoring the sting of pain as Lord Harry's knife gouged his shoulder. "You damned dog!" He screamed. Grabbing a fistful of the vampire lord's black hair, he ripped it from his head. Lord Harry yowled in pain. Any trace of humanity that He had erstwhile possessed slid away from him like a cloak. He was all fangs and blackened eyes. Dark, sluggish blood dripped from his scalp, stinging his eyes and magnifying his fury. He punched Wilshire hard in the face, feeling the satisfying crunch of the man's nose beneath his hand. Hot red human blood sizzled from Wilshire's broken nose, dripping down his face and into his mouth. He spat in disgust. Black hairs drifted to the floor from the palm of his hand

The rich copper smell of blood caused a transformation within the crowd. Gone were civil european faces, replaced by contorted, monstrous masks. Nobody moved. All eyes turned to Hal, master of the monsters.

"Let me finish this," he hissed through his teeth, his mouth opening in a wide, feral grin. He could have killed Wilshire in seconds, but he enjoyed toying with the man too much. He fed off of the emotion as much as he fed off of the blood. Nothing got him going like rage. To Wilshire he said, "Pick up your stake. Let's make this a fair fight, shall we?" Wilshire nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and took several steps back and picked up the long sliver of wood, not once taking his eyes off of Hal's face. Hal watched him with amusement. "Good to go?" Wilshire nodded. Hal twirled his knife like a baton. Wilshire gripped his stake with grim determination. This time, he didn't rich into action. With slow, steady motions, the two opponents circled each other. Wilshire's eyes moved nervously, looking for an opening. A chance at the heart. Scarlet drops of blood dripped from his purpling face, splattering the white marble floor.

Hal's taut muscles undulated beneath the soft fabric of the wide collared shirt. His sloping neck thrust his head out, and he became a beast on the prowl. He would let Wilshire make the first move, examining the man's movements with a keen and knowing eye. He'd killed hundreds of people. Thousands. Over the years, he'd found that there were about ten subcategories of human. There were the weepers, who accepted the fate with tears and begging, and the fighters, who simply couldn't accept the fact that they were going to die. Wilshire was a romantic- He knew that he was going to die, but would do his best to bring Lord Harry down with him. He was like a tragic hero, in his own right. The romantics were Hal's particular favorites. He respected their audacity and cunning. A worthy opponent made the best kill.

After minutes of circling, Wilshire finally did make his move. He lunged forward, then feinted left unpredictably. This sudden change of style nearly caught Lord Harry off guard. He was barely able to block the blow, sustaining another gash in his arm, just below the shoulder. Both of the fighters had now garnered minor injuries. Hal's blood was slow and dark, almost like black pudding, while Wilshire's was hot and red, coursing through his veins like the river Thames, spilling over the banks and down his arm.

Lord Harry swung wide with his knife, advancing forward as Wilshire leapt back, avoiding the dangerous blade. There was a large table in the dining room, and it was up onto this that Wilshire jumped, desperately kicking the limp corpse of a serving maid back at Hal as he did so. He nearly slipped on the congealing blood. Hal was up on the table in an instant. He bared his teeth at Wilshire, his eyes still black with blood lust. Wilshire stabbed again, but Hal grabbed the stake before it could reach it's mark. He twisted hard, wrenching the wood once more from Wilshire's hand. He broke two fingers for good measure, grinning at the crackle of breaking bone and the resulting yelp of pain. He punched Wilshire twice in the gut, then once more in the face as the man doubled up with pain. He backed up two steps, crashing off of the table and onto the floor, struggling to get back on his feet. Before he could manage, Lord Harry leapt on top of him, pinning him down with his knees. The air rushed out of the other man with wheeze.

"Here's the part where you beg for my mercy," he whispered in Wilshire's ear. "It won't save you, but maybe it will make me kill you a little quicker, you mewling berk."

Wilshire looked up at him, his pale, colorless eyes still burning with hatred. The skin around one eye was blackening, and his nose was out of alignment. Blood streamed from his face, pooling on the floor beneath him. "Never, you grotty bloodsucker." And then he spat red, the globule striking Hal straight in the face.

In seconds, Wilshire was dead.

* * *

Later that day, Lord Harry and his men packed up camp, leaving behind the bloodstained manor house and all it's deceased attendants. The only body missing was that of Thomas Wilshire.

* * *

It was nighttime when he opened his eyes. The darkness was far from blinding, though. It held a strange comfort that he had never before known in night. The leaves of the trees above him were fractal in the moonlight. He skin was sticky and cold. He gasped like a fish, trying to suck air into his stagnant lungs. Rolling on the forest floor, he realized that his heart lacked a beat. He could hear the worms and the beetles crawling and squirming through the dirt around him. The rustle of baby birds in a nest above him. Sitting up, he touched his fingers to his incisors, crying out when he felt their carnivores points piece his flesh. Alone in the dark and the trees, Thomas Wilshire screamed.


	3. Ghost Upon the Quay

**Trying my hand at something a little different here... Lemme know how you like it!**

* * *

The gentleman dressed

in silk and crimson flowers

His head was tressed

with blackish locks

He smiled like a cat at me

o' as I wandered down a-by docks

It was there we met

He charmed and grinned

and offered me to get

A dinner, a drink

a show upon the stage

Alas, Abet, I did not think

That harm he would do me

We talked and walked

all down by'th greying sea

Farther we wandered

and all this time I knew not

upon what he pondered

That murder so foul

could stem from a face so fair

that from him such a beast might howl

like hell, and burning night

my scream, it rent the air

but went not down without a fight

Upon the damped sand

the struggle!

Of the Lord I made no demand

But cursed and wept my foolish pride

Tremble now, oh foolish soul

for there is no place to hide!

Oh gushing red

like crimson flowers

yet nary was I dead

But clung to life

as a babe at mother's breast

as he to I, in all our strife.

And as nature went against

The sweat earth did fade

and life did I at last relent

A sigh, a whisper, dying breath

I let it go, my gentle soul

and into me I welcomed death

Cold and gone I lay

beneath a rising sun

another ghost upon the quay


	4. Blue Scarf, Red Blood part I

Crimson droplets blossomed on the snow like roses. For some reason, this detail engrossed me. Even as I ran for my life. Even though it was my own blood. I can like that sometimes. Entranced by the extraneous. Perhaps that was why I had become a writer. I had an eye for the little things. It was in fact this propensity to notice things that others ignored that had gotten me mixed up in this mess in the first place. Never had I before cursed my curiosity as I did now

There was a scarf wound tight around my neck, like a tourniquet of blue flannel. I had nothing but a light jacket, and was shivering violently. Despite this, I kept running. I knew that if I stopped, it would mean defeat. And death. Termination, to be exact.

I could sense him behind me. Sometimes he was closer than others. Every once and a while, he would fall away, and I would think I had lost him. Then he would return and I would know that it was just a game. He could scent my blood from a mile away. He was like a hound set loose from hell, and I knew he would chase me to the ends of the earth.

I stumbled and fell to my knees, floundering in the heavy day-old snow. More blood. I could feel its loss beginning to siphon away my strength. My lungs burned and stung with the freezing air. I looked back, towards the trees. He was there. I could see him, in the shadows. Watching. Haunting my periphery. Why hadn't he made his move? No time to wonder. I stood and ran again. Erratic. Erroneous. Hellacious. Words spilled out of my mind, like ink onto paper. My breath came in ragged gasps, punctuated by bouts of coughing.

Three weeks ago, I had noticed him. A strange, dark figure. He was everywhere I turned, watching me watching him. It took me a full week to work up the courage to speak with him. Two weeks before I felt comfortable alone with him. Romantic. I was caught up in novels of romance, blind to the truth of the world. I imagined him to be my Heathcliff. My bright knight. How wrong I was!

A night ago, he'd revealed his true self to me. Stinging puncture wounds in my neck, leaking precious red kept it fresh in my head.

We'd gone for a walk. He held my arm like a proper gentleman, distracting me with pleasantries as he lead me further and further from my small village. By the time that I realized I was lost, it was too late. He set upon me like a fairytale monster, his eyes blacker than hell, teeth like those of a wolf. When those teeth punctured my flesh, oh god. It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life. So much fear, so much pain, and a strange, low, aching desire that throbbed in time with my racing heart.

Hands- still gentle- caressed the back of my head, tangling into my curling black hair. I could feel his cold skin growing flush even as I began to chill. I was certain that I would die. Alone in the forest with this _thing_. I cursed him, my deadening fingers seeking to plunge themselves into his black demon eyes. Maybe it was my will to live. Maybe he just felt bored. What ever the case, my dark lord let go. I stumbled back. Fell into the snow. He unwound his blue scarf from his neck. "Here Tessie," he said, handing me the blue scarf. "Wrap this around your throat. It will staunch the bleeding." For a moment, he sounded like my friend. Like my Hal. "You'll need your strength, if you want to live." The devil entered him again, flashing black in his eyes, and he grinned, showing his ghastly fangs. "You have a half hour. If you reach Westfold before I catch you, than I shall grant you your life."

"But, it's more than twenty miles from Milford to Westfold!" I gasped. How could I get that far, wounded as I was?

"Your half hour has started. I'd recommend that you start moving before your clock runs out. Ticktock, ticktock." I scrambled to my feet and turned to flee. "Ticktock." His voice chased me to the edge of the clearing. "Ticktock, ticktock."


End file.
